Why Anton Krupicka Runs Barefoot

Embracing the simplicity of running

I initially began pursuing the act of running barefoot and wearing more minimal running shoes over six years ago. After a series of injuries in high school, a well-meaning podiatrist convinced me that I needed heavily constructed motion-control shoes coupled with expensive, custom-made fiberglass orthotics in order to remain injury-free.

But I continued to get injured.

The thought of throwing out my orthotics and experimenting with lighter shoes first occurred to me simply because of how much more enjoyable running was on the few occasions that I wore lightweight racing flats (at that time, I typically wore flats for speed workouts and races). As a result, over the course of a few months, I gradually transitioned from wearing orthotics and conventional trainers to logging miles in racing flats and often nothing more than my bare feet. Over the past year or two—and with the help of the timely publication of some peer-reviewed research and the best-selling book Born To Run by Christopher McDougall—this practice has now hit the mainstream in a big way.

However, the adoption of this minimalist philosophy by the masses has not been without debate and controversy. While I consider the scientific evidence on barefoot running regarding injury prevention and performance enhancement to be largely inconclusive and lacking any significant causality, as with most things running-related, I view footwear as an experiment-of-one type situation that should be based on personal goals and individual preferences, not necessarily on a generalized theory.

So, what are the reasons that I have chosen to run barefoot and in minimalist shoes? Recently, running author Matt Fitzgerald wrote an article titled “But Is It Faster?” that outlined his take on the recent shift towards barefoot running and its potential for improving racing performance. I appreciated the article’s pragmatic, levelheaded spirit in addressing an issue that has—strangely—become quite heated on both sides. However, in reflecting upon my own practice of running barefoot and in minimalist shoes, I realized that his titular question was relatively irrelevant for me.

Part of this is because I don’t see myself as a fanatical adherent to any sort of unshod dogma. Rather, as a trail, mountain and ultra runner, I find myself balancing the practical demands of my preferred terrain (steep, rocky, rooty trails) with the more aesthetic requirements of taking the simplest possible approach to running in the mountains. If I want to run quickly, efficiently, and effectively in such an environment, shoes are definitely in order. But, the shoes I do wear in the mountains manage to provide some requisite protection while still aligning with the basic minimalist design principles of a low-profile midsole and very little drop between the heel and forefoot.

As runners, our feet are what keep us connected with the ground and offer important tactile, sensory feedback, which makes the structure and design of the shoe on our foot essential in shaping our experience with the surrounding terrain. By wearing a shoe that eliminates unnecessary gimmicks and gadgetry (and, most importantly, a big, cushioned heel), I am allowing my foot to operate more effectively, efficiently and naturally while freely relaying proprioceptive information back to the rest of my body.

Minimal footwear enforces a heightened sense of the position of my body in space and its position relative to the technically challenging terrain. This sort of awareness is at the basis of any skilled movement we do as athletes, and the athleticism that running quickly over variable terrain requires is probably the essential difference between a trail/mountain runner and the traditional road/track athlete who operates primarily in a straight-ahead plane of movement.

To train my body for this type of coordinated movement on trails, I am sure to incorporate a significant amount of true barefoot running in my weekly regimen. Of the 150-170 miles per week that I log in a typical period of heavy training, about 30 of those are run barefoot around a grass and turf half-mile loop. Most morning mountain runs are concluded with a mile or two of this barefoot running, and another three to four miles are included in my usual hour-long evening outing. I would prefer to do this full hour barefoot, but generally can’t tolerate more than 30 minutes or so of repeatedly running the same flat loop.

The changes in my form that come from this barefoot running—a midfoot strike pattern; shorter, quicker, lighter strides that fall under my center of gravity; an upright posture—all translate to enhanced performance during my shod running in the mountains.

But, for me, incorporating barefoot running into my training isn’t only a means to a more coordinated, performance-oriented end. A really big part of my motivation for running in general comes from the actual “doing” rather than in just the end-goal “achievement.” My best runs are where the felt kinesthetic experience of moving quickly and efficiently through a natural landscape is most fully realized, not necessarily the runs where I make it to the top of the mountain and back down the quickest. However, I think it is not by accident that these two ideals often coincide.

In the world of big mountain alpinism—in the Alps, Andes and especially the Himalayas—there is a select group of mountaineers that specializes in climbing light and fast. Reinhold Messner pioneered this ethos in the 1970s when he scaled the world’s highest peaks without oxygen, often solo and with only the absolutely necessary gear for survival. This tradition is carried on today by climbers like Oregon’s Steve House. In his book Beyond The Mountain, he sums up the motivation for these risky, lightning-fast expeditions with the explanation: “The simpler you make things, the richer the experience becomes.” For men like Messner and House, simply getting to the top of the mountain isn’t a worthy enough goal—the style in which that goal was accomplished is equally as important.

This ethic is precisely my motivation for trimming my mountain running gear—including my footwear—to the bare essentials, which means I’m often out there all day with nothing more than a pair of shorts, a gel or two tucked in my pocket, a water bottle and, of course, a pair of shoes that rarely weighs more than seven or eight ounces. Because I don’t evaluate my running based purely on performance results—and even resent the idea of being nothing more than a calculating automaton looking only for that extra edge—the most appealing aspect of barefooting and minimalist footwear is that its underlying ethic is one that meshes best with my overall outlook on life: Simplify, and most of all, pursue the purity of the experience.